I'm probably repeating the same sentiments I expressed last Friday when I say, "Yes! Friday!"

Fuck AT&T
To Hell with their customers.
Damn all corporations
Fuck the people who support them
Wait, don't fuck the people who support them.
The corporate whore gene needs not to be passed along.

Kirsten met me for my supper break at work last night. It was a refreshing break from the usual, eat tuna sandwich, read Crime and Punishment with the roar of two inane sitcoms for background noise in the gas chamberesque breakroom at TeleTech. We scurried off to Dino's pizza in beautiful Burbank. From what I gathered, Dino's used to cater the now defunct 'Married With Chidren.' Fox is not kind to their stars. Anyway, Ed O'Neil and christina Applegate both had personalized publicity photos autographed to Dino's. Dino's, both outside and in has the appearance of being established in the fifties with an attemted eighties updating that got halfway through before they gave up. A young girl played Q-Bert. I took a glance back into the kitchen and everything had a strange grimy look as if all the untensils, walls, floor, appliances, and people had been poured over with concrete. The mushroom pizza was brought out to our table and I forgot an important hallmark of good pizza, greasy sloppiness. Dino's had that up to the armpits. These health inspectors need to back off and let each restaurant achieve their own unique level of flavorful kitchen coating grime. There's flavor in that there e-coli. We treat our stomaches as if they have not been shaped and conditioned by millions of years of evolution that enables us to ingest everything from coffee beans and palmegranites to goat livers and turkey necks. By god, if we baby our stomaches with these foolish sanitation and food preparation 'laws' then we run the risk of Devolution. Stop devolution now! Drink chicken blood hot from the stump of its neck. Rim pig snot fresh out of the snout hole.

I've squandered away my Friday morning typing in more of the testicle story, writing what you are now reading, drinking coffee, chatting on ICQ and listening to The Fixtures album Devil's Playground. Every once and awhile I slip into some form of film, music,book or magazine review. I have no problem with that. It's my webspace, well, actually it's Jims' or at least will be soon. My review of the Fixtures is as follows: good. buy. I wouldn't lie. It's sort of like DK meets Gwar, but isn't everything? Maybe it's like Gwar as children meeting Art Linkletter on the set of "Gwar Babies Say the Darndest Things."

I hope TeleTech doesn't fire me. When I filled out my schedule preference form I wrote down that I would "need saturdays off do to my chosen religion which forces me to observe the Sabbath by going to gentlemen's clubs and shooting heroin into my eyeball." Next to that I drew a picture of me holding out a five dollar bill, saying 'come here, bibee.' with a large needle jutting from my eye. Fuck them. Why do I care if they fire me or not? If they fire me, at least it's Friday which would mean an indefinitely protracted weekend.
Sure could use that.
It seems like aeons since I've been unemployed.

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